Tales from the Jack and Hammer
by otahyoni
Summary: Richard Jury series by Martha Grimes A collection of unrelated, silly short stories starring Melrose Plant and Richard Jury. Guest appearances by other beloved characters.
1. Good Intentions

**Summary:** Melrose has some explaining to do. Melrose Plant, Richard Jury. (Melrose x Bea Slocum)

**Setting:** Sometime after Bea Slocum enters Melrose's scene.

**Rating:** PG

* * *

**Good Intentions**

* * *

Melrose held up his hands and took a careful step backwards. "Richard, I swear I can explain everything."

Jury looked at the disaster that had once been his flat. The furniture had all been shoved in one corner of the living room, and every cupboard in his kitchen hung open, utensils, pots, and plates strewn everywhere. A pan of something burned beyond recognition still smoldered in the sink. The windows had been thrown open to let out the smoke, and a stack of case files had blown all over the flat. A small pile of brightly-colored clothing lay in the middle of the floor near a broken lamp. His other lamp leaned drunkenly against the bookcase, which was draped in a large sheet of clear plastic.

Bright orange paint was splattered across at least half the flat. It looked like someone had brutally murdered a pumpkin.

Jury pointed to lump of fur cowering under his reading chair. "Is that a rabbit?"

"Richard…"

Jury took a step forward, and something squished under his shoe. He glared at Melrose.

"…if you'll just listen for a few minutes before you kill me, I'll explain."

"Should I sit down?"

"That might be a good idea."

Jury gingerly made his way to the chair, avoiding paint globs on the floor.

"Bea swears those'll come out," Melrose said, perching carefully on Jury's plastic-encased couch.

Jury grunted and sat in the chair, thankfully splatter-free. The rabbit shot out from beneath it, dashing through his bedroom door and under his bed. Something caught his eye, and Jury craned his neck to get a better view. The blankets and sheets had been shoved to the end of the bed, making room for a foot to dangle off the edge.

The foot twitched. Jury knew that nail polish.

"Why is Carole-Anne in my bed?" he asked.

Melrose shifted his weight—crinkling plastic—and turned pink. "She, ah, passed out. Wine."

Jury started to rise, but Melrose stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"She might be naked."

Jury fell back into the chair. "_What?_"

Melrose's blush deepened. "I'm not sure. Bea took care of her, but she was definitely naked at one point. Wine." He cleared his throat. "I, uh, hid in the kitchen, making some dinner, while Bea tried to talk her back into her clothes." He looked pointedly at the clothing lying on the floor. "Obviously she wasn't entirely successful, but she may at least have got her back in her knickers."

Jury sighed and tried not to wonder if Carole-Anne had bothered to wear any. He looked instead at his kitchen. The smell of smoke still lingered. "You cooked."

Melrose coughed. "Yes. Not well."

"Apparently."

"I'll clean it up."

"Yes." Jury rubbed his forehead. "Let's hear this explanation."

"Well, we didn't think you'd be back for a couple days. Wiggins swore."

"That's not helping your case."

"I doubt anything I say will. Oh, you should probably also know that your Mrs. Wasserman thinks I'm a Nazi collaborator."

Jury swore. "What'd you do to her?"

"_Do _to her?" Melrose repeated, looking wounded. "Absolutely nothing. She took one look at me and slammed the door. It took Bea twenty minutes to talk her into coming up, and then she'd only stay as long as I was locked in the bathroom."

"Why did you need her, anyway?"

"For the painting. Your Christmas present. Bea's idea."

A breeze from the window blew a crime scene photo up against Jury's leg. "The path to hell, and all that?"

Melrose nodded. "Indeed. As I was saying, Bea thought some wine might calm Mrs. Wasserman down long enough to get her painted. Unfortunately, Carole-Anne drank most of it, so then she needed to use the loo." He pointed at a orange-blotched lump of fabric near the kitchen. "As soon as Mrs. Wasserman saw me, she attacked me with Bea's paints, ruining my favorite jacket, then fled."

"I'm finding it hard to pity your suit right now, since my flat's in much the same shape."

"I told you, Bea can get those out."

"Where is she?" Jury asked, peeking in his bedroom again. Nothing but Carole-Anne's legs.

"Out fetching some cleaner."

Jury looked at his decidedly more colorful walls, furniture, and carpet. "Mrs. Wasserman did all this?"

"No—she only got me. Carole-Anne did the rest. She came out of the bathroom just in time to see Mrs. Wasserman's coup de grâce, and drunkenly decided we were doing your painting Pollack-style. Bea had to bodily fling herself in front of the canvas to save the work she'd done. By the time I wrestled the paint tube away from Carole-Anne, she'd accomplished this." Melrose waved his hand, encompassing the whole of Jury's flat.

"And her clothes came off when?"

Melrose blushed again. "When it was her turn to model. She was getting rather belligerent by that point, so Bea just let her…go. Easier that way to get her part of the painting done."

"While you cooked."

"Badly. Yes. Sorry about that."

Jury sat up. "Wait. I'm getting a nude painting of Carole-Anne?"

Melrose shook his head. "No, no, no. No. It's a portrait." He held a hand up to his collarbone and raised it in a quick motion above his head. "Safe zone."

Jury relaxed, then frowned. "But what about the rabbit?"

"Ah. That came before the paint. Carole-Anne wanted it in her portrait, but he got away from her. We chased him for half an hour. I'm afraid we knocked over a lamp or two. I'll replace the broken one, of course."

Jury waved his words away. "I always hated that lamp, anyway."

The two men sat in silence for a while. Jury could feel a chuckle starting in his chest when Melrose spoke.

"Do you want to see it?" he asked softly.

"See what?"

"Your painting. Bea will kill me, so you can't let on you've seen it when we give it to you proper, but I think it's extraordinary."

Jury nodded, and Melrose beamed at him.

"It's behind you."

Jury stood and leaned over the back of the chair. Propped in the small space between the chair and the wall sat a canvas.

"We hoped it'd be safe there until it dried," Melrose said, moving to Jury's side. "In case of further disasters."

Jury lifted the canvas off the floor, careful to grip the sides, and turned it toward him.

Carole-Anne and Mrs. Wasserman stood side-by-side, their faces turned away from each other and angled down. The painting only showed half their faces—jaws, cheeks, the corner of their lips. Carole-Anne's fiery hair cascaded down her back, one tendril falling forward, the line of her neck gracefully dipping into a bare shoulder. A tiny, curled wisp of hair had escaped Mrs. Wasserman's bun, tickling her ear. The high, laced collar of her black dress hid her neck, but Jury could see the powder dusted over her lined cheek.

Carole-Anne's hand, her fingernails matching her hair, rested on Mrs. Wasserman's shoulder, bright against the fabric of her dress. Mrs. Wasserman's hand, in turn, lay on Carole-Anne's shoulder, pale and gnarled against the perfection of the younger woman's skin.

Jury stared at it.

"She's not sure what to call it yet," Melrose said softly. "Her 'utter rubbish' title right now is _Generations_."

Jury shook his head. "No, that's not right. _Flamma et Cinis_. _Fire and Ash_."

He could feel Melrose watching him as he carefully replaced the canvas behind the chair.

"I'll be sure to hint about it to Bea," the ex-earl said. "I'm glad you like it."

Jury smiled at him. "You're still cleaning the flat."

"Oh, of course." Melrose smiled.

Jury weaved across the splattered carpet to the drinks cabinet. He waved a bottle of scotch at Melrose, who nodded.

"By the way," he asked. "Why is there a rabbit in my flat again?"

Melrose accepted his drink. "Ah. That, I'm afraid, is Carole-Anne's Christmas present for you."

Jury choked on his drink.

"Precisely," Melrose said.

* * *

End.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Nonprofit organization.


	2. Melrose and the Order of the Phoenix

**Summary:** Reading Harry Potter forces Melrose to confront a loose thread in his love life. (Melrose x Bea)

**Setting:** Um, sometime after Bea disappears with no explanation whatsoever.

**Rating:** G

**Notes:** For Artyartie, who misses Bea.

* * *

**Melrose Plant and the Order of the Phoenix**

* * *

Melrose shut his copy of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix _and frowned at the cover. He'd bought the full set of Harry Potter hardbacks last weekend in Sidbury and spent the week reading them in front of his fireplace. He'd found them delightful until now, but this one stubbornly insisted on throwing his own life in his face.

It was that blasted Tonks character with her blasted brightness—both literally and figuratively—and vivacity. Every time the character appeared on the page, she wore Bea's face. Every time she spoke, he heard Bea's voice in his head. It was extremely distracting. The guilt made it impossible to concentrate on anything else occurring in the book. Even when Harry and his friends were safely ensconced at Hogwarts, he spent each page terrified Tonks would pop up, bringing memories of Bea with her.

He drank the rest of his brandy and made a decision. If the only the Sorting Hat could see him now; he'd be Gryffindor for sure.

Bea's face filled his vision.

On second thought, make that Slytherin.

* * *

He really needed to have a phone installed in the drawing room. Standing in the hall, a children's book clutched to his chest as he listened to Bea's phone ring, he felt—and probably looked—like an idiot.

Before he could worry about how badly his voice would carry, someone answered.

"Hello?" Bea's voice.

Melrose closed his eyes. "Hi, Bea."

A small gasp. "Oh."

He held his breath for three seconds, and though she didn't speak, she didn't hang up either. He took that as a good sign.

"I've been reading Harry Potter," he said. "The fifth book. And there's this character, Tonks, so bright and lively and young, and she reminds me of you. Well, she _is _you. In my head, I mean. I see you when I read about her."

He stopped and held his breath again, vaguely hoping he wouldn't pass out. Interesting colors were starting to appear on the edge of his vision when Bea spoke.

"You called to tell me I remind you of a character in a book?"

"She reminds me of you, but yes, same general concept."

"Right."

"Because her reminding me of you made me want to talk to you," he clarified, his words running together so horribly he'd be amazed if she recognized it as English.

"Ah."

Silence stretched interminably before him, and Melrose wondered if he was capable of kicking himself. It seemed the only course of action left to him at this point.

"Does that make you the werewolf, then?" Bea asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"The werewolf, Lupin. He's intelligent and bookish and kind of sad and mischievous all at the same time, and quite a bit older than Tonks, but she falls in love with him. She spends the sixth book pining for him, because even though she loves him and knows he feels the same, he won't let himself love her. So he leaves, and she misses him so much that all her brightness leaves her, and she's dull and listless instead of vibrant and alive like she used to be."

Melrose swallowed twice before he could speak. "That's terrible."

"I know."

They shared another of those pauses they were suddenly so good at.

"I have been a bit of a beast," he said.

"Yes."

He thought he could hear the tiniest hint of a smile in her voice, but he might have imagined it. "So what happened to them?"

Bea was silent for so long he was afraid she'd hung up. Just as he started to panic, she said, "He wises up and they get back together."

"She takes him back?" He couldn't quite keep the hope and disbelief out of his voice.

"Well, she loves him, even if he is an idiot."

This time, he knew he hadn't imagined the smile in her voice. It took several moments for Melrose to realize she couldn't see him grinning.

"Are you busy tomorrow? There are several things I need to apologize for."

"Meet me at the Black Horse at six."

"Right. Good. See you then."

"Okay." She took a deep breath and quietly said, "Bye, Mel."

He smiled and let his eyes drift close, hardly noticing the click as she hung up.

Three minutes later, he was still standing in the hall, holding a book to his chest and a dead receiver to his ear.

* * *

End.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Nonprofit organization.


	3. Five Times Melrose Slept with Diane

**Summary:** Exactly what it says on the tin. Five times Melrose Plant accidentally (and not-so-accidentally) slept with Diane Demorney.

**Setting:** Post-_The Stargazey_

**Rating:** PG-15

**

* * *

Five Times Melrose Accidentally (And Not-So-Accidentally) Slept with Diane**

**

* * *

i.**

By the time Diane knocked on his door that night, Melrose was very, very drunk. He'd started at the Jack and Hammer, then come home and worked through a good portion of his liquor cabinet. As he stumbled to the door—Ruthven and Martha long since banished to their wing for the evening—some small, lucid part of his brain was impressed he could still walk. But then, he'd never been the staggering sort of drunk.

After a moment of concentration, he remembered how the latch worked and yanked it open. Diane stood on the other side of the door, a bottle of vodka in her hand.

She lifted her eyebrows. "I brought you a little something to help you sleep, but I see you thought of that already."

Melrose turned and moved back toward his chair by the fire. He heard the door close and then the click of Diane's heels as she followed. He stood in front of his liquor selection and refilled his glass, then found an extra one for her. She joined him, mixing her drink while he drained his glass in one pull.

He reached for the bottle of scotch, but Diane placed her hand on top of his, stopping his movement.

"Sit down, Melrose."

He shook her hand off and reached for the bottle. Diane caught his wrist and dug her bright red nails into his skin. He yelped and backed away from the liquor cabinet.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Sit down."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Hands on his shoulders, nails coming into play when he balked, she pushed him toward the sofa and then gave him a final shove to force him to sit. He watched as she stoppered up the scotch and vodka, placed them in the cabinet, and then locked it. When she pulled the key from the lock, he struggled to get up, but he didn't make it to his feet in time to stop her from opening the front window and tossing the key out onto the lawn.

"Diane!" he protested, sticking his head out the window, looking vainly for a hint of silver in the grass. "What'd you do that for?"

"If your head's still functioning tomorrow, you can drive yourself to Dorking Dean and rent a metal detector. But for tonight, you've been cut off."

He pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut, then turned to glare at her. She crossed her arms and glared back.

"You owe me," she said, and Melrose suddenly felt too sober. He didn't want to think about this. Didn't want to think about Dana and guns and how close he'd been to dying before Diane showed up like some strange guardian angel who smelled of vodka and cigarettes.

"I thought you said—"

"I changed my mind." She gripped him by the elbow and dragged him back to the sofa, shoving him down into it as before. "Normally I'm all for drinking to excess, but the way you're going, you'll undo all the effort I went to, saving your life."

Melrose looked at the empty bottles he'd left on the cabinet and decided he'd definitely be alarmed in the morning when his brain worked again.

"Fine," he grumbled. "What do you want?"

"I want you to go the kitchen, if you know where that is, and get yourself a very large glass of water. I want you to drink it. And then I want you to go to bed and stay there until you damn well feel like getting up. Okay?"

He stared at her. "Um, okay."

She straightened and smoothed her hair, somehow managing to look, despite the absurdly late hour, as though she'd just gotten dressed. "Good. I'll let myself out."

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, something Melrose had never seen her do before, then she bent and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

The tenderness of the gesture surprised him so much that he didn't think to stand and go after her until he heard her heels click through the foyer. He caught up to her as she reached for the door handle.

"Diane."

She turned, waited until he stopped a pace from her. "What?"

He didn't know how to answer that question, so he let the scotch speak for him. He leaned forward and kissed her.

She kissed him in return, and soon they were stumbling back down the foyer. Everything was mouths and tongues and teeth and hands, but it wasn't until the back of his heel bumped into the bottom stair that he realized where he was dragging her like a caveman.

He pulled away. "Um—"

"Shut up, Melrose." She kissed him again, hard, and shoved him backward so he was forced to climb the stairs in a half-drunken stagger or fall flat on his back.

Somehow they made it to the top of the stairs, and from there, it was comparatively easy to traverse the few yards to his bedroom door and then to the bed.

**

* * *

ii.**

He stood on Diane's doorstep, glowering at the bell. He'd managed to avoid talking to Diane—if not necessarily seeing her—for four days, but had finally decided they couldn't just ignore what had happened the night he was almost shot.

Which was why he stood on her doorstep, determined to tell her it could never happen again.

He just needed to ring the bell.

Maybe ignoring things was the best option. Maybe he should just go back to his car, go home, and read something riveting.

Or he could ring the bloody bell and get it over with.

Diane, martini glass in hand, appeared so quickly he wondered if she was expecting someone.

"Melrose. Come in." She abandoned the door, leaving him to close it as she clicked her way across the hall and into the sitting room. He followed, bracing himself against the assault of whiteness.

Diane, refilling her drink at the cabinet against the wall, waved him toward a crisp, uncomfortable sofa. He sat stiffly, perched on its edge as though it might dirty his suit, or his suit might dirty it.

"So are you going to talk to me now, or did you just come over to stare at me?" Diane asked.

"I wasn't _not_ talking to you," Melrose protested. "I just...didn't. But I am now. Obviously."

"What would you like to talk about?" Diane settled at one end of the sofa, and Melrose suppressed the urge to scoot as far away from her as he could.

"Um."

She sipped her drink, watched him, and the words swelled inside his throat until he couldn't contain them any longer.

"We can't do that again," he blurted.

Her eyebrows lifted, just a little. "Can't?"

"Shouldn't." He tried to make it sound like a definite, confident statement, but came out more as a question.

"Why not?"

"Because…" He stopped, because he didn't really have a reason. He hadn't gotten that far in his thinking, too busy with the panic and awkwardness. Neither of which seemed to be affecting Diane at all.

"That's what I thought," she said, standing to top off her martini. When she returned, she sat right next to him, their legs touching.

Melrose stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She drank her martini, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

"Look, this is a really bad idea." He leaned forward, preparing to stand, but her hand on his knee stopped him.

"I've always been rather fond of bad ideas."

He couldn't be sure, later, how it started from there, but he definitely remembered how it ended.

Even Diane's bedroom was white.

**

* * *

iii.**

Melrose drove Diane home, the silence in the car growing more awkward every mile. On a spontaneous whim, their usual group had decided to drive to Dorking Dean for dinner instead of spending their usual evening in the Jack and Hammer. Through various switchings and arguments and machinations Melrose hadn't been able to follow, he'd somehow ended up alone with Diane for the short drive home.

He tried not to think about what had happened the last two times he'd been alone with Diane, but that just seemed to make things worse.

Two months, he'd managed not to be alone with her—though it wasn't hard, as they usually only saw each other in group environments, anyway. Special action had to be taken to be alone with Diane, and not taking action was always easier than the other way around. Neither one had ventured to the other's house in an attempt to talk about things again, and Melrose had just started to relax around her. And now this had happened.

Diane fiddled with the radio, her red nails clicking through the stations and finally settling on jazz. Melrose couldn't help looking at her in surprise.

"I like Thelonius Monk," she said. "Great name. His unorthodox approach to the piano combines a highly percussive attack with abrupt, dramatic use of silences and hesitations."

He'd long ago gotten used to Diane's random spouting of information. "Have you ever actually heard any of his songs?" he asked.

She lit a cigarette. "Not really. But he does have a great name."

They didn't speak again until he pulled up in front of her house.

"Right, here you are. Have a good night." Melrose tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and waited for her to get out of the car.

Diane leaned forward and snuffed her cigarette in the Bentley's ashtray. Then, instead of leaning back, collecting her purse, and opening the door, she grabbed the steering wheel and levered herself out of her seat and into his. In a smooth, practiced move, she turned, facing him, and positioned a knee on either side of his hips.

He gaped up at her. "You're kidding."

She reached a hand down, between him and door, and found the appropriate lever. The seat fell back with a _thunk_ so that Melrose lay almost horizontal, Diane hovering above him.

"You've absolutely got to be kidding," he said.

"Oh, come on," Diane scolded, her fingers already working at his buttons. "Didn't you ever do this when you were sixteen?"

"They don't allow girls at Eton."

"God, what a horribly dull adolescence you must have had." She kissed him. She really was terribly good at this.

"We're in the middle of the street!" he protested—rather feebly, admittedly, but he pretended not to notice.

Diane pulled away and sat up. "Do you want me to go?"

Melrose meant to say _yes_. He really did. But she moved—ever so slightly, in just such a way—and he heard himself say, "No."

**

* * *

iv.**

Someone rang the doorbell, and Melrose stopped reading, though he didn't lower his book. He heard Ruthven open the door, a murmur of voices, and then the click of heels. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He hadn't been able to drive his Bentley since the last time he'd heard those heels, two weeks ago.

"Miss Demorney," Ruthven announced, standing in the drawing room entrance. Diane moved past him and walked straight to the liquor cabinet.

Melrose sighed. "Thank you, Ruthven." His ancient butler bowed and left without making a noise, and Melrose watched Diane mix a drink, his book still held in front of him like a shield.

Drink perfected, she turned to face him. She clutched a book in her other hand. Melrose eyed her the way he imagined he'd eye a wolf if one appeared in his drawing room.

"I brought your book back," she said. She took a pull of her drink.

"What book?"

She lifted it and squinted at its spine. "_Robinson Crusoe_."

"I think you're mistaken. My copy is leather bound."

She flipped the paperback over, blinking at its cover as though she'd just noticed it in her hand. "Are you sure? I'm almost positive you lent it to me."

"And I'm almost positive I've never lent you a book in my life."

Diane took another drink of his gin, not at all disturbed by her sham of an excuse for invading his house. He set his book aside.

"I didn't think you read books, as a rule," he said.

"I read the first and last chapters. That generally gives one all they need in order to talk about it."

"And you never wonder what happens in the middle?"

She shrugged. "Life, I suppose."

He didn't have a response for that, so he watched her finish her drink.

"We should look, shouldn't we?" she asked. "To make sure you have your copy and that this isn't, in fact, it?"

He knew exactly where his copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ was. He could see it from where he sat, part of a collection of identical leather-bound classics his father had bought before Melrose was born. He'd tried to read it when he was thirteen, but given up a third of the way through, bored stiff. He hadn't bothered to pick it back up again.

He stood. "You're right, it could be mine. We'd better look."

She nodded, seemingly relieved, and set her glass on a nearby table. "As many books as you've got, you can't possibly keep track of them all."

He hummed in agreement and hesitated just a second, hoping he hadn't misjudged her intention in coming here, then said, "I keep most of my paperbacks upstairs."

She took a step toward him, fingering the book she held, looking younger than he'd ever seen her. "Of course. I think I remember shelves."

"There are shelves."

"So, we should look on the shelves?"

"Yes. Let's do that."

He wasn't sure who their utterly unconvincing performance was for—Ruthven, the furniture, themselves—but by the time they got upstairs, they'd both completely forgotten about their search for his nonexistent copy of _Robinson Crusoe_.

**

* * *

v.**

"We really need to stop doing this."

"Why?"

"Because…well…neither one of us is – _mmph_ – all that emotionally involved."

"Stop being such a girl."

"I'm not! I just think we should…reevaluate…this relationship."

"It's not—_ah_—a relationship. You just said. And this is pretty rich—_ooh_—coming from the man who stuck his hand up my dress a few minutes ago."

"You were—it was—I can't think when you're doing that."

"Melrose?"

"Mmm?"

"Shut up."

"Right."

* * *

End.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Nonprofit organization.


	4. Encounter in the Library

**Summary:** Melrose encounters a young girl in the library. The usual exasperation occurs on both sides.

**Setting:** The vague and extremely fluffy future.

**Rating:** G

* * *

**Encounter in the Library**

* * *

Melrose sat in the overstuffed armchair, absorbed in his book. He liked this corner of the Long Piddleton's library. It was filled with dusty, historical tomes, so not many people wandered back here. He'd donated the armchair a few months ago, specifically requesting it be placed in this section, and had thus created himself a new reading haven. He could read at home, of course, but this way he felt like he'd accomplished something by getting out of the house.

He saw movement in his peripheral vision and lifted his eyes in time to see a small, light brown head duck back behind a shelf of nautical logs. The owner of the head giggled. Melrose slumped into his chair with a determined sullenness and ignored his watcher. Another flicker of movement, another giggle, and then a much larger movement accompanied by the sound of tiny feet trying to be sneaky and failing spectacularly.

Melrose risked a glance. A small girl stood in front of him, holding a picture book. She was smiling. He wasn't sure why. He looked back down at his book and pointedly turned a page even though he hadn't finished the last paragraph yet.

"I found a book," the girl said.

He didn't look up. "How terribly clever of you, finding a book in the library."

"Wanna see?"

"Not particularly."

This bought a few seconds of silence. He read a sentence. Then, suddenly, the girl was pushing his book aside and crawling in his lap.

"I beg your pardon!" he said, trying to decide if shoving her off would get him in trouble. "I'm trying to read."

She wiggled about, twisting and contorting herself in ways no adult could, and finally poked him sharply in the ribs. "Budge up."

He obeyed, though glaringly, and scooted over so she could slip between him and the padded arm of the chair. A little more wriggling and she seemed content, her movement confined to kicking her feet. She lifted the book toward him.

"Read this instead."

He looked at the cover. _Go, Dog. Go!_ Dr. Seuss. At least she had good taste. "Why?"

"Because it's about dogs! And I bet it's funny. See? They have cars." She pointed at the cover and then looked up at him.

He couldn't stop himself. "Dogs can't drive cars."

"These can. The pictures say so."

"Someone made the pictures up. They're not real pictures."

She sighed and slapped the book against her legs with a _thwap_. "They're _story_ dogs. Story dogs can do whatever the story-maker says."

"Oh. Well, why didn't you say so?" He took the book from her and opened the cover, skimming the first page, then turning to the next.

"Hey!" the girl protested. "What are you doing?"

He looked down at her. "Reading the book, like you said."

She propped her fists on her hips, somehow managing to look intimidating despite being squished between a grown man and a chair. "I meant for you to read it out loud. To me."

He adjusted his glasses and tried not to laugh. "Well, then you should have said so." He started reading mid-sentence, and the girl nearly writhed out of the chair.

"No! You're supposed to read it from the beginning."

"I already read that part. And who says I have to do it that way?"

She paused, her mouth open, momentarily stumped. Melrose suppressed a grin. "It's just the way it works," she said. "Like how things fall when you drop them. You read things from the beginning."

"Oh, very well." He turned back a page and cleared his throat.

"Wait!" She leaned forward and looked up him, a pleading look on her face. "Are you going to do voices?"

"Absolutely not."

She frowned. "Mummy does voices."

"I bet she doesn't. And I'm not your mother." He scanned what little of the library he could see from his chair. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Please?" She blinked her bright green eyes. "Please, Daddy?"

He made a show of looking around the library once more, then hunkered down and whispered, "Okay. Just this once."

She clapped her hands and snuggled against him, laying her head on his arm.

"Just don't tell your mother," he said. Vivian would never let him hear the end of it.

* * *

End.

**

* * *

Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Nonprofit organization.


	5. Last Call

**Summary:** Jury and Melrose get drunk. That's...pretty much it.

**Rating: PG**

**

* * *

Last Call**

* * *

Jury set four pints on the table with a thump, then carefully lowered himself into his chair.

Melrose squinted at the cluster of glasses and the liquid sloshing within them, then shifted his gaze to Jury, waiting half a second for his eyes to focus. "Four?"

"Two each," Jury said. "Saves time."

"Saves nine," Melrose said, then frowned. "I'm not sure why I said that. Maybe two more isn't such a good—"

Jury shoved a pint toward him, and Melrose fumbled to catch it before it fell in his lap. A good portion of ale slopped over the side of the glass and soaked his sleeve. He shook his arm absently toward the floor, shrugged, and lifted the pint to his mouth.

He'd lost count how many rounds they'd gone through tonight. He'd also forgotten why they'd come out with the sole purpose of getting completely pissed in the first place. Something about a woman, probably, or a murder. Or both. It was usually both. He supposed the fact that he couldn't remember meant they'd done a good job of it.

"'Sides," Jury continued. "S'last call."

Melrose set his pint down. Jury had drained two-thirds of his already. "Already? That's rot."

Jury nodded several times, somehow managing to finish off his pint at the same time. "It's also true. See?" He shoved his wrist in Melrose's face, but Melrose couldn't focus on the watch's tiny numbers when they were only an inch from his nose.

He shoved Jury's arm away and moved on to his second pint, even though the first was only half gone. "If we 'fuse to leave, think they'll call the police?"

For some reason, this made him giggle. As soon as he realized he was giggling, he stopped, but it wasn't soon enough. Jury smirked at him.

"What?" Melrose asked.

Jury shook his head, lost his balance, and gripped the table to steady himself. Melrose snorted, then looked at the two half-full pint glasses in front of him, trying to figure out which one to drink. Jury swiped one of them, making the decision a lot easier.

"Thaz mine," Melrose said out of some need to defend his territory rather than any real offense. He finished off his remaining pint in one long pull and then set the empty glass on Jury's side of the table with the other three. He giggled again.

"You're drunk," Jury accused, smirking again. It was the fourth time one of them had made that particular statement.

"Of course, I am. So're you, in case you'd forgotten. Now – are we being kicked out of here or not?" It was hard to tell at this distance if the look on the bartender's face was disapproving or amused, but either way, that meant it was time to leave.

They stood, pretending it was easy, and slowly walked toward the pub's exit. The floor was much more uneven than Melrose remembered, but he only stumbled once. Jury couldn't find one of his coat sleeves, and kept turning circles, trying to see it. He struggled his way into it just as Melrose pushed open the door, the chill of wet, January air knocking some of the alcohol out of his blood. It still took him four minutes to find his keys. Between them, his suit and coat had far too many pockets.

"Put those away," Jury said, digging through his own pockets. "You can't even stand up straight. You're not driving."

"I can, too," Melrose protested. "I am, right now."

Jury looked at him. "You're swaying."

Melrose hesitated. "I thought you were swaying."

"We're prob'ly both swaying, which is why…" Jury pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket with a sloppy flourish. "…I'm calling Wiggins."

* * *

End.

* * *

**Usual disclaimers apply:** Not mine. Nonprofit organization.


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